


Moonlight Desires

by fizzyCherryCola



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blow Jobs, Clothed Sex, Come Swallowing, Consent is Sexy, Crossdressing, Dirty Talk, Dream Sex, Hand Jobs, Kink Exploration, Lingerie, M/M, Magic, Makeup, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Porn with Feelings, Safewords, Sexual Fantasy, Shameless Smut, Teasing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:34:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29305059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fizzyCherryCola/pseuds/fizzyCherryCola
Summary: After months of hard work, England has finally crafted what he calls a 'crystallum': A magical device that allows any couple to live out their wildest sexual fantasies. France is skeptical at first, but when their first trip takes them to a vivid world straight from his dreams, he can't deny his excitement.From sweet vanilla lovemaking to life-or-death swordplay, anything they imagine can become a reality.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33





	1. Prologue

Tucked away into the remote English countryside, a cozy cottage sits. Gentle snowfall kisses the old, thatched roof on this chilly February afternoon. Its stone fireplace holds many romantic tales and its wooden beams have creaked countless times over the centuries. If there are any desires a man should have in his heart, this quaint little home would know them well.

However, at the moment, poor France cannot see any of this beautiful scenery because he is blindfolded, and has been for the past half hour. Standing, arms crossed in the middle of the cottage’s living room, he taps his foot somewhat impatiently.

“May I remove this blindfold now?” he cautiously asks.

“Not yet!” England shouts from someplace in the back of his den. The air is filled with the sounds of papers shuffling and furniture being dragged across carpets.

“Whatever you are preparing,” France remarks, “I hope it is better than what you made me for my birthday.”   
  
“Those... pastries,” England says with exertion, “tasted fine.”

“Angleterre, they were black.”

“...Still tasted fine!” There is a loud thump and England exhales from the effort. Footsteps draw near and the weight of a familiar hand presses onto France’s shoulder.

“Alright,” England pants. “It’s ready, but....”

“Finally,” France sighs. He begins to untie his blindfold, when a pair of hands suddenly grab the knot tightly, holding the silky black fabric in place.   
  
“Wait!” England hisses nervously. “Let me finish.” France raises his hands in mock surrender and huffs with mild irritation. “This... This took a lot of work, understand? I spent months trying to get this sorted. So, you’re not to start laughing once I start explaining what it is and how it functions. Alright?”

France cannot hold back a smile. “And if I cannot control myself?”  
  
“Then I’ll toss your cock in boiling oil.”  
  
“How medieval,” France drawls. “Very well, I promise I will not laugh.”

The cloth falls from his face and he blinks away the glare of mid-afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows. As the world comes into focus, France notices a small rounded table directly in front of him. Its oak texture is worn with age. Enigmatic runes carved into its surface line the edge. Atop it is a strange, purple glass orb, nestled in an elegant stand of wrought iron.

“It’s called a crystallum.”

“...You made me a crystal ball for telling fortunes? For Valentine’s Day?”

“No, of course not!” England sputters. “It’s not meant for anything as simple as that.”

France eyes the bizarre object with skepticism. Unfortunately, his partner’s enthusiasm for magical artifacts often ends in disappointment or disaster.  
  
“Well, what is it for then?”

Flushing pink, England reaches for a thick book on his impressive bookshelf. He opens the old tome to a spot bookmarked by a thin string and reads out a passage.

“First created in 642 AD by the Red Witch of Northumbria,” he annunciates, “the crystallum is a device of incredible magical power. It draws upon the conscious and subconscious imagination, creating vivid fantasy worlds to fulfill its user’s deepest desires. Weaving together all five senses, it is arguably the most sophisticated of the Illusion Artifacts currently known to mankind. When crafted, it is enchanted with numerous luck charms that allow the user to enter and explore these wonderous dreamscapes in complete safety. The crystallum can be used by multiple persons at once. However, it will only create a single illusory world based on the mind of the user who touches it first.”

“Oh, Mon Dieu,” France sighs defeatedly. “Angleterre, these magical schemes of yours never work.”

“This one will!” England claims, his eyes full of fire. “I had assistance this time, from both Romania _and_ Norway! Their only stipulation was that I let them borrow the orb at some point.”

“Let us pretend for a moment that I believe everything you have said. What would we be using this thing for, exactly?” England blinks and pointedly avoids making eye-contact. He closes the ancient tome and timidly returns it to the shelf.

“Like it says in the book,” he mutters, fidgeting with the edges of his sweater vest. “It’s allows you to explore whatever... Fantastic dream or... Any scenario you may have thought about.”

France can feel his lips curl into a knowing, lecherous grin. “You are being vague on purpose.”

“I am not,” England huffs.

“What type of... _scenarios_... are you hoping to explore, hmm?” Poor England’s face turns crimson and he glares at his lover.

“...Use your bloody imagination, you daft frog.”

Curiosity piqued, France glances back at the strange object. The dark purple ball shimmers attractively, catching the barest hint of reflections on its smooth surface. Who knows? Perhaps this particular scheme will end up being quite entertaining.

“I accept,” he says, “on one condition.”

“...Which is?”

“That I get to choose our first sensual experience.”

Frowning, England carefully reads his partner’s face. In response, France smiles and bats his eyelashes with angelic innocence. At least, as much innocence as the 2000-year-old nation of lust can hope to muster. After a beat of silence, England clears his throat.

“If you _insist_ ,” he relents. The embarrassed furrowing of his ever-expressive brows is a delightful sight. France chuckles.

“Merci beaucoup,” he chimes.

“Right,” England says, shaking away his insecurity. “We’ll probably need a safeword, then. Any ideas?”

Fighting off the urge to say ‘Brexit’, France instead suggests “How about ‘rose’?”

“Alright, that works.” Extending his arm, England continues. “Take my hand. Then focus clearly on where you wish to go and what you want to do. When you’re all set, touch the orb and we’ll be off.”

“It is really that simple?”

“’Course it is. It’s magic.”

Taking England’s hand in his left, France conjures up thoughts of rick silk, high ceilings, and elegant jewels.

“Let us see if this new device of yours works.”

He reaches out with his right to the mysterious crystalline ball and places his palm on the cool glass surface. For a moment, nothing happens. Then, a strong force suddenly pulls on his entire arm. The cozy living room swirls away in spiraling, painted colours and is replaced by brilliant white light.

France screws his eyes shut as all his senses are dragged deep into a place of otherworldly magic and carnal desire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm taking this wild idea and running straight to hell with it. (Honestly, I just wanted to write a bunch of filthy smut to stave off cabin fever.)
> 
> This story will have different POVs for each kink. Basically, if we’re entering France’s dream, we’ll see it from England’s perspective. And vice versa. I wanted to do this because I think it captures the experience of kink exploration better. For the POV character, the kink is new and exciting. There will be kinks where both characters overlap, though. Like sex toys. I’m also a firm believer in ‘switching’, so this fic will contain both FrUK and UKFr. I wanna keep it interesting. 
> 
> Kink List in Order of Appearance:  
> Crossdressing, Sex Toys, Aphrodisiacs, Rope Bondage, Food Kink, Swordplay, Burlesque, Teacher/Student Roleplay, etc.... 
> 
> More to be added in the future! If there's a particular kink you'd like to see, just drop a comment! I'm open to ideas.


	2. Dressed to the Nines

Like a gentle caress, the illusionary world fades in.

England shakes off the mild dizziness that comes with reality-warping magic. He squints as his senses take a second to adjust. He feels France’s clenching hand slowly relax and release.

Glancing around the marvelous space, England is immediately stunned at the sight.

Delicate crystal chandeliers bathe warm, glittering light over the entire scene. The massive, elaborate room is filled with rows upon rows of dresses hanging off of lengthy racks. There are so many, that the racks are stacked on top of each other. It makes the beautiful space feel like a warehouse for theatre costumes. With its high ceilings and intricate crown molding, the room echoes an elegant, Baroque-period style.

Inspecting the garments more closely, England notices that their designs vary wildly. From ballgowns to sundresses, A-line skirts to frilly tutus, babydolls, tunics, jumpers, and little black cocktail dresses. Some are modern, strapless things that would barely cover the human form. Others are massive, intricate creations that England hasn’t seen since the 17th century. It’s nearly overwhelming.

“Angleterre,” France gasps. “How did you do all of this?”

England blinks at him. “I told you, didn’t I? It’s magic.”

The idea doesn’t quite seem to sink in, as France gazes up in wide-eyed wonder at the sparkling crystal lights. He wanders the space aimlessly for a moment before turning and darting down one of the aisles.

“Hey!” England calls. “Don’t get lost.” He hears the hurried footsteps of France’s shoes grow distant and sighs. Taking another look at the grand room, his lips curve into a slight frown.

This isn’t _exactly_ the sort of fantasy he had in mind for today. Though, England supposes it’s his own fault for getting flustered and not being more upfront with his partner. It’s an unfortunate issue he struggles with all too frequently. Part of the reason he crafted the crystallum in the first place was to assist with that particular problem. It’s far easier to for him to show than tell.

“C’est magnifique!”

Startled, England looks up to see France bounding towards him. He’s carrying a rainbow bundle of about a dozen dresses in his arms. A bright, joyful smile graces his face. “Everything here is perfect!” he exclaims. “It is like I have stepped into my own dream. No, perhaps it is even better!” A touch of heat comes to England’s cheeks and his chest swells with pride.

“Well,” he remarks. “I suppose I can’t take _all_ the credit. After all, it was Romania who--”

“You must see the rest!” France raves. He snatches England’s arm excitedly and pulls.

“Oi!” England squawks.

Despite his protesting, he lets himself be dragged off deeper into the room. White and gold walls fly past the pair as they run, France’s blonde curls bouncing with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever.

Arriving at the room’s southeast corner, they slow. Wide shelves of high-heel shoes in every style line the far wall. Opulent vanity mirrors stand next to plush velvet seats and a pair of curtained changerooms. It looks like an all-in-one salon, everything a fashion model could want.

France drops his collection of garments onto a sofa. Then, he brings England over to one of the vanity chairs and sits him down.

“Crossdressing, mon amor. How do you feel about it?”

“I, um...” England mumbles, intelligently. “Well, if you’re set on dressing up, it’s not really any bother.”

“No, not for me,” France clarifies. “I mean for you.”

“Wh-… What?!” England shouts.

France gives him a sultry grin. “I have seen you strut around in heels before. Naturally, a dress is the next step, oui?” If England wasn’t blushing before, _that_ particular memory will certainly do the trick.

“That's completely different!” he shrieks. “And why me?!”

“No need to be embarrassed! The immaculate France will be right here with you every step of the way.”

“That is _precisely why_ I am embarrassed!”

“Hmm...” France pauses for a moment. “Well, what if I were to beautify myself too? I could tie my hair back and shave my beard. If I did that, would you feel more comfortable?”

England swallows. “Y-you’re missing the point, but... fine. Just don’t complain when it doesn’t turn out the way you think.”

Pursing his lips, France regards him quizzically. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” England huffs. “Just get on with it before I change my mind.”

“Very well,” France shrugs. He opens a little drawer in the vanity and pulls out a thick hairbrush. England grimaces and hopes this won’t be too painful.

Minutes pass as France works on England’s stubborn hair, meticulously brushing and straightening it with a flat iron. After spraying it with some misty fragrance, he finishes. Then he reaches into a different drawer, pulling out creams, powders, and a slew of makeup brushes. As he brings a brush close to England’s cheek, his partner leans away reflexively.

“You are worried you will not look good,” France states.

England exhales through his nose. “You tried this in the past, remember?”

“When I gave you a haircut? Oh, Angleterre,” France sighs. “I was a child back then. I did not know what I was doing.”

“What?”

“We did not even have clean water in those days! Of course, your look was going to disappoint. Since then, however, I’ve learned much about the art of beauty.” Placing a finger under England’s chin, he gently tilts it up, looking his partner in the eyes. “You can relax and trust in the nation of love.”

Regrettably, England does not relax, but neither does he complain. He closes his eyes as the soft, feathery brushes dance over his face. They tickle a bit and he squirms in his seat. France chides him for moving. Time slowly slips by, and eventually he feels the tender press of lipstick gliding over his lips.

“My work is done,” France gloats. Shrinking, England opens his eyes and shyly starts turning towards the mirror. “Ah, not yet! The look is not complete!” France jostles him a bit in an effort to obscure his reflection. “Put on your dress and _then_ you may see yourself.”

Crossing his arms, England scowls petulantly. France steps away, gathering up a few articles of clothing and a pair of shoes off the shelf. He places the lot in England’s lap with a satisfied smile. “To the dressing room, Angleterre.”

Begrudgingly, England gets up and slinks over to the tall changeroom curtains. Getting inside, he pulls the drape closed and plunks the beautiful clothing onto a chair. How kind of France to give him a set of thigh-high stockings and panties as well.

He hates how pretty the fabric looks, knowing it will only clash with his gangly body. Whatever. Maybe when France sees how futile this endeavour is, he’ll never bring it up again.

England timidly picks up the dress and scrutinizes it. The dazzling garment is a deep, shimmering emerald green. Sleeveless _and_ backless, with a halter top, good Lord. Its collar is decorated with silver ivy leaves embroidered into the neckline. Glancing at the dress’ bottom, he sees that the fabric flows out near the knee, giving it a mermaid appearance.

Muttering under his breath, he hangs it up on a gold hook and starts undressing. Carefully avoiding the makeup on his face, England removes his sweater vest and white button-up. When he finishes, he turns to the dreaded lingerie, picking it up delicately between his thumb and forefinger. It’s very small. And very lacy. And very black. _Christ._

Gingerly, he removes his underwear and slips the dark panties on. The silky cotton cradles his sensitive cock in a manner that’s almost heavenly. But the thin strip snaking up the crack of his arse is _much_ too distracting and makes him flush. Next, he slides a delicate nylon up one of his legs. The elastic band snaps tight against the soft skin of his upper thigh and he flinches. Humiliated, he adds the second stocking to his other leg and refuses to flinch a second time. He unfortunately fails.

Finally, the dress. Heart pounding, England unclasps the back of the ornate collar. He pulls the forest of sleek fabric over his head and slides into it. Then, holding the halter top up against his bare chest, he latches the collar in place around his neck.

Taking in a shaky breath, England stares down at himself. There isn’t even a mirror in the dressing room, so he can’t check if the dress is sitting right or if he looks like a twat or if he should just refuse to come out entirely. Physically, it feels alright enough. The satiny garment fits his body like a glove and the soft texture shifts against his skin pleasantly. Maybe he doesn’t look terrible?

Toeing on the green 3-inch heels, England swallows and carefully peeks out from behind the curtain.

“I’m... finished,” he mutters.

“Ah, I am still changing!” France says and England can hear him shuffling about in the dressing room next door. “I will be out in just a moment.”

Jumping at the chance, England hastily shuffles over to the vanity mirror. The tight waist and high heels prevent him from even attempting brisk walk. Anxiously, he leans in to the reflective surface. And _gapes_ at his reflection.

All the flaws he so often sees are gone. The makeup is blended evenly into his skin, leaving it pristine and unblemished. Forest eyes strike out from underneath his shaped brows. Clay rose lipstick adorns his lips. His normally scruffy blonde hair is shiny and tame. Disbelieving, he touches it and finds it as soft as a flower petal. Is this really him? Or has his mind warped into the body of a different person?

England takes a moment to look at his dress too. As he suspected, it does fit him well, hugging and accenting all the right places. With a twist, he catches sight of the back and blushes. It is _exceptionally_ low, only starting at the bottom curve of his spine. Someone (France) could easily slide a wandering hand in there and grab an entire fistful of--

“Regardez-moi, Angleterre!”

Nearly leaping out of his skin, England jerks towards France’s voice. “Don't scare me like that, you bloody... frog....”

Dressed to the nines, France poses grandly in front of the changeroom curtain. The cerulean ballgown cascades out from his waist, full and lavish. Off-the-shoulder sleeves and bust cling tight to his upper body. A thin, white, high heel sandal peeks out from under the dress’ rippling edge. His rich hair is partially tied back in a spiraling waterfall braid. Eyelids shut; he shows off the delicate work he put into his makeup.

If they were not already a couple, this would be incredibly awkward, because England cannot stop staring. It’s not his fault, though. Honestly, France could wear a paper bag and still look like a model. But _this_... The sharp angle of his clean-shaven jaw and trim collarbone on display. The juxtaposition of all his masculine traits against that gorgeous dress. And all of it combining to make him look hundreds of years younger.

England could really use a glass of water right now.

“Speechless?” France asks, his coral pink lips splitting into a bold grin. As his eyes flutter open, he gazes at England and starts. Expression going from confident to star-struck in a second. “Arthur...” he breathes.

As France steps closer, England’s cognitive functions short-circuit because there’s a long slit up the skirt’s front - just off-centre and high enough to glimpse an exquisitely naked leg. Christ, he really went all out.

Before he can even process it, France is across the room and touching him.

His hands are on England’s hips and his eyes are raking over his body. This close, England catches a swirl of delicious aromas: iris and praline, fresh skin and vanilla. It's strikingly feminine and sends him spinning. Those fingers, not even trying to hide their intention, won’t stop skating over the satiny fabric wrapped tight around his waist.

And then to the bare skin of his back.

England accidentally gasps. Then he mentally kicks himself for being such a desperate, needy twat. He waits for France’s snide comment, but surprisingly, it doesn’t come.

France’s movements slow. His deep blue sapphire eyes are full of wonder and want. When he speaks, his voice low and quiet. “Do you like it?” he asks.

“It’s... not bad,” England falters.

“You clean up quite well, you know,” France murmurs, his mouth ghosting the skin of England’s bare shoulder.

Remembering that he’s probably allowed to touch too, England hesitantly drags his hand along France’s collarbone, his neck, his jawline. It’s mesmerizing how soft his flesh is; so different without his trademark golden beard. Almost as though he’s more exposed - more naked than what England is so intimately familiar with. Threading his hand into France’s luscious hair, England curls his fingers against his scalp, and France just _purrs._

He turns and places a kiss to the crook of England’s neck, just above that lacy collar. And when England swallows, he does it again.

Heart pounding, England leans into that seductive mouth. His breath hitches, just a smidge, when it finds his jugular. France nibbles the spot and presses his tongue to it. And England has to bite back some weak little noise.

France exhales, and the air is so warm. He roams, mouthing England’s ear, rolling along his jaw, and finally kissing the corner of his lips. England turns into it, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like kissing France wasn’t just this taboo fantasy he kept locked away for centuries.

Every embrace they share has to make up for so much lost time.

Coming up for air, England gasps, then goes back in for more, placing sloppy open-mouth kisses along France’s jawline. His skin is salty and intoxicating, like the taste of something forbidden. A carnal, animalistic need builds up in his chest and he can’t help himself. He bites down, hard enough to bruise, _to mark_ , and France lets out a sharp cry.

“My, so eager,” he pants. His voice is rough and unsteady. “You were a nervous little kitten before you entered the dressing room.” He rubs encouraging circles on England’s shoulder blades, sighs into his ear. “Why the sudden change?”

“’S your fault,” England grunts, biting that pristine jaw again and relishing France’s noises. His lipstick is probably already smudged. He’s so far gone and he isn’t sure if it’s because his dress gave him a confidence boost or because France is such a sinfully gorgeous man. “Showing off your skin,” he quietly mutters, “and your hair. Everything you have that... that....”

“Hmm?” France hums.

Feverish, England growls. “...Everything that makes me want to devour you.”

Moaning, France shudders and his body twists like a cobra. He snatches England’s chin in his fingers and crashes their lips together, all teeth and tongue.

It’s less a fight for dominance and more a wild whirlwind. They push and pull each other around the room, eventually finding a wall, and that’s plenty good enough. England’s bare back slams against it. And suddenly, he’s acutely aware of how much _nothing_ he has on under his dress.

Urgently flattening himself along England, France hungrily goes at his lover’s neck, mouthing and biting everywhere he can. It’s driving England mad, making him flush and squirm. Through clenched teeth, he sucks in a sharp, shuddering breath. He clamps down on a desperate groan struggling to escape his lungs. Already, his cock is straining against the hopelessly tight fabric and he hates it. He wants all their frilly clothes off _right now._

France squeezes a nimble hand between their restless bodies, and finds England’s hard shaft. He curls his palm over it and that wonton noise finally frees itself from England’s chest.

France grins, dark and lecherous. “A little soon, isn’t it?”

“F-Fuck off,” England gasps. “Get this damn thing off me.”

“Mmm, I do not think so, mon amor. It suits you far too well.”

France starts rubbing him off through his dress and England keens, wretched and needy. The cloth is soft and _fucking divine._ It glides so easily over his cock; it may as well be made of down feathers.

He’s unravelling far too quickly; that damn perfect, filthy hand is reducing him to a boneless, whimpering disaster. It’s so bloody embarrassing, that England buries his heated face in France’s shoulder - moans into his skin. He seizes his partner’s dress at the waist, trying to anchor himself, but it’s entirely useless.

A low, satisfied chuckle rumbles through France’s chest and it’s absolutely infuriating what that sound does to England. How it bends his will, makes his lip quiver, and makes his thighs fall open. France grinds against one of those thighs like he was born for this. His ballgown rustling, his chest heaving. Flawlessly, always flawlessly, entwining them together.

“Remember, Angleterre,” France teases and goddammit, his voice is breathless, but he’s practically _cooing_ with delight. “This is not a race.” He licks a hot, wet stripe up the nape of England’s neck and England nearly impales the man with his fingernails.

Bucking helplessly into that bewitching hand, precum smearing along his skin, he’s so fucking close, _it hurts._ But fuck off if he’s about to cum before France. Clinging to his last shred of pride, England shoves his hand through the ballgown’s tempting slit, reaches for whatever lacy scrap of underwear France has on, fully intending to tear it off and pump him ‘til he screams.

But instead of fabric, his fingers immediately wrap around warm, pliant flesh.

The shock sends a fiery jolt straight to England's throbbing cock, and his stomach coils tight.

“Y-You’re...” he gasps. “You’re not wearing... any....”

France gives him a villainous, erotic smile. A smirk so wicked, that Satan himself would shiver. Then, his free hand darts into the back of England’s dress, grabs his trembling ass cheek, _hard,_ and it completely undoes him. “I fucking _knew_ you would do tha- aah! A-Ah! ... _Ahh!!”_

He’s crying out, convulsing against France’s body as he spills hot cum into his elegant clothes. France strokes him through it, draining every last twitch and whimper out of him.

Slowly, he comes down. Panting, easing into satiated peace, only to hear France lovingly taunt him.

“Perhaps you do like crossdressing after all,” he hums, still steadily grinding against England’s thigh. “So red, and helpless, and messy.” He nibbles at England’s ear, like he’s savouring every heavenly second.

Unfortunately, even without his comments, England is plenty embarrassed enough, thank you very much. Lips thinned; he glares, but it seems to have no effect. “It is a shame I do not have my camera with me,” France whispers. “I would have adored a souvenir photo.”

_Oh, that does it._

Fed up, England dives under France’s ballgown.

“Ah, wait!” France frantically exclaims. “Let me at least sit down!”

England does not wait. Brushing the billowing fabric out of his face, he plunges forward and licks a sloppy, wet streak along France’s cock - smiles victoriously at the shuddering groan he earns. The blue gown falls over him like a tent, cloth rustling in his ears and he goes at France mercilessly. Fondling and kissing every bit of sweat-slick skin he can access. He swipes his tongue along France’s inner thigh and fucking hell, it's like velvet.

A dizzying musk assaults his senses as he mouths France’s dusty red shaft, again pulling a sensual, wonton noise from him. England sucks in a deep, shivering breath because that smell is amazing and it is purely, exquisitely _France._

He relaxes his throat and gobbles that juicy cock down to the hilt, sucking obscenely, like a London whore. Salty and savoury, it’s so fucking good that England’s eyes flutter shut. He flattens his tongue against it, slowly pulls off and dives back down, bobbing over and over.

A restless hand tries to grab the back of his skull, tries to hold him in place, but the skirt deters France’s efforts. He whines and cries out in broken French. “S-S’il... _Ah!”_ Desperately moans his lover’s name. “Arthur...!”

It’s so bloody warm. The short gasps of air England takes, his panting, his quiet groans - it’s all trapped under the ballgown. Hot breath blending together with the raw scent of sex. And France’s wails are coming in short, sharp bursts; his legs rattling dangerously, teetering on his fancy white sandals. England presses his fingers into those shaky thighs, feels the tense, quivering muscles underneath. Wishes he could gnaw on them and suck cock at the same time.

Pulling off, he fists the wet shaft in his hand, pumping it at a punishing pace, and quickly slathers one digit in saliva. Then, slick with spit, he reaches back, _jams_ the finger deep into France’s asshole, _and curls._

Hips jerking wildly, madly, France releases an earth-shattering cry. Cum splatters onto England’s cheek and tongue, and he shoves the organ back in his mouth, greedily swallowing every fucking drop. The salty nectar goes down as smooth as butter, so rich and satiating.

France's shaking gradually slows to a delicate tremble. Carefully, England licks the softening flesh clean, swipes a thumb over his own cheek to catch the mess there, and swallows that too.

Pushing the fabric aside, England gets out from under the ballgown and the world spins when he stands up too quickly. He wobbles and quickly braces himself on an ornate dresser. His legs are incredibly sleepy from kneeling, his lips are sore, and his jaw aches. He's guessing that he looks like a bloody wreck – all tousled hair, smudged lipstick, and flushed skin. But Christ, it was well worth it.

To England’s pleasure, France is beat, panting and leaning heavily against the ivory wall. Eyes shut, with a blissful blush colouring his face, his head lolling to the side and his pretty makeup mussed in a few places. He’s practically half-asleep and England can’t help feeling a small flicker of revelry because _he did this._

England readies some banter to throw at the frog, because France looks beautiful this way, like a delicate canvas painting, and England’s never been good at dealing with these abstract things called emotions. But then France’s tired eyes peak open, brilliant ocean blue framed by dusky lashes, and he smiles in a way that makes England’s heart lurch. Instantly, the pathetic quip dies on his tongue.

Something magnetic pulls at his soul and he goes to his lover, embracing and kissing him, so wholly sincere that it’s a bit frightening. A bit vulnerable. And England quietly hopes that France never finds out just how much he needs him.

Stumbling, they manage to make it to one of the plush couches, and with a weak sigh, they both wearily collapse upon it. Head bouncing on the cushions, England can feel the tempting approach of sleep, just as France decides to muse.

“I would say that you have made up for the terrible birthday pastries,” he says.

The corners of England’s lips curl up slightly. “...Should bloody think so.”

“Merci.” France tenderly kisses his forehead, runs warm fingers through his hair. It’s futile; England can’t keep his eyes open. “As a reward, you may choose our next adventure.” 

The words barely register as he slips into gentle slumber. “Mm... Agreed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read my little fic. I hope you like it so far!
> 
> This is my first time writing smut! I'm super nervous about my work, so if you have any critiques, I'd love to hear back from you. I want to get better at writing and the best way to do that is with your feedback.
> 
> Thank you!


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